Reports from the front lines, by Ralph McAtee Just back today from Covington after 6 days of working with some of the best people in the world. I want to update you as best I can and maybe give some behind the scenes look at what has happened. GOING SOUTH Cara, Paul, Katherine,Gary, Ralph, and Lenore I rode shotgun on the Plenty bus with Gary McLaughlin down into Mississippi and then Louisiana, headed for Covington. The camp at Covington had been started by the Veterans for Peace, and we were welcome to come in and join our efforts with theirs. Our crew left the Farm in Summertown at midnight of Monday, September 5th. The ragtag yet merry crew included Gary, our sparkplug from Santa Cruz, Katherine West and Cara French, students from the Ecovillage Training Center, Lenore Norrgard, a writer and journalist visiting the Farm, and Paul Gaskin, revolutionary thinker and computer/media guy. We had traveled all night, and once south of Birmingham, we saw that gas stations were dark and closed up tight. Of the few that might be open, diesel fuel wasn't always available. We actually turned around and headed back north at one point to find diesel. As the sun broke through clouds at daybreak, we started to see the devastation we had only heard about. Trees were down and highway signs were either gone or broken in half. We would pass a broken sign and then look backwards to read the upside down names of exits we were passing. It felt like a Hitchcock movie. As we got closer to the coast, entire rows of trees lay sideways along the roadside, and crews had cut many of the tops to allow vehicles to pass on the highway. It wasn't too hard to imagine this road as impassable just a few days ago. A tornado or three had probably passed near here, as we saw trees simply pulled up by the roots, and some were still at rest in the branches of larger cousins. We were still an hour from New Orleans. WHITE ROSE We found our way through Covington, and made it through a small neighborhood back to the Pine View Middle School. School starts Aug 22, the sign announced out front, but the empty parking lot out front strongly disagreed. We went to the back of the school, and the first thing that was immediately noticeable was The White Rose. The Rose is a red-white-blue bus with the flag theme boldly painted amidst the colors. Her name painted above the front windows, she is a beauty, and we notice a gazebo tent set up next to her. DENNIS KYNE The first one to meet us is Dennis Kyne, a friendly face with a big handshake and smile. We state that we have supplies, and he directs traffic until we have all the food unloaded. The water goes on some pallets farther down the line, and within an hour we are unloaded. I learn that Dennis spent 15 years in the Army, a decorated Sargeant who went to Desert Storm back under President George Bush the 1st. He did his job as ordered, and was nominated to attend West Point, a huge distinction that would allow him to become an officer. He then learned that the Army was using Depleted Uranium to attack enemy forces, and he and his men were forced to march into areas that had just been contaminated. This is the truth behind the Gulf War illnesses that soon ravaged those vets who served there, and he has been fighting ever since to Get the Truth Out. More on that story can be found at http://www.denniskyne.com. Chilling stuff from a man who fought bravely for the country, and now fights bravely for the benefits he and his fellow Army vets deserve. We also meet the rest of their crew, Gordon, their leader, Mel, the web guy who is busy helping find missing persons online, Fred, wearing a tie dyed t-shirt that reads "War, what is it good for, Absolutely Nothing" and names the author (Edwin Starr). We also meet James, their point man on recon into the New Orleans area, who will accompany us soon into territory that is now guarded and patrolled by some of the same guys they served with. These are hardcore peace activists. They have lived and had close friends die in the war zone, and they know the hardcore reality. Some are paid $205 dollars a month by the VA for "undiagnosed illnesses" related to the war. I am told if they actually diagnosed them with radiation illness, then the government would be admitting that yes, they had used radiological weapons. Talk about Mass Destruction. Shit, I'm pissed now and we forge an instant friendship with this crew. We will work together as a team, and use each others strength to make this relief effort strong. We drove all night, unload, meet the guys, and now hatch a plan to take supplies into New Orleans. Gary has been into town and made it to the airport on Friday, bringing out over a dozen people who just wanted to get out of town. He did this on a wing and a prayer, and ran into New Orleans police who were disagreeing with each other as to whether he could carry people out or not. This in a city that was destroyed by the hurricane, and they were telling people to leave. A few days later..... 9/11/05, GETTING STARTED Waking up at 6:30 to a phone call from Colleen. She and the next crew from Plenty have been travelling all night and are close to Covington and they need directions in. Joel Kachinsky, Mark Hubbard, and David Mitzell (boyfriend of Bernice Davidson) are coming down to relieve a few of us, and they wll go with us to New Orleans today. We are planning some information gathering and a supply drop into Algiers, the South Bronx of New Orleans. Just across the river from the Convention Center, and just a couple miles from the Harrah's casino, Algiers is home to some of the most impoverished in the city. A good friend of mine from the Vets for Peace, Dennis Kyne, has made contact with Malik Rahim and we have already dropped a load of supplies there on Thursday. Malik is a Green party candidate for City Council in New Orleans, and was a founding member of the Louisiana Black Panther chapter. He is very no-nonsense in his activism, and has told the media coming in that if they just want pictures to go elsewhere, but if they have food and supplies he has time for an interview. After giving directions to our crew, I head into the middle of camp where we have a makeshift kitchen. Some cowboy coffee is brewing and we get a cup and begin to plan todays activities. Since our arrival on Tuesday of last week, the size of this volunteer operation has more than tripled. Cars and tents are everywhere and we have individuals and groups milling about. Some folks are asking where to plug in, and it quickly becomes apparent that some new, larger organizing has to be part of the plan. We were pretty small and could mobilize quickly a few days ago, but now it's a different story. The Vets for Peace are the largest contingent of this group, and some have been on the road for nearly three months, since Camp Casey in Texas. I ask a couple of them how they want to organize this, and Dennis looks at me and says "We would like you to do it." "Oh, really?" says me. He laughs and reminds me that this is what Plenty does. Oh, yeah, ok then let's do it. We have a quick organizational meeting with about 30 camp members present. I lay out a plan that we hatched just an hour earlier, and we soon have coordinators for supply drops, camp food, crews, scouts, first aid, and mapping. Margaret, a friend of the Heikkala's is here and she is organizing people. Bless you Margaret, and thanks. She takes on alot of the tasking and I go to meet with the Vets for Peace. They would like us to take Michael Moore's crew into Algiers with us today for the supply run, and also one of their guys, Billy Kelly, a Vietnam Vet highly decorated for bravery. He was in Crawford when the Bush counter-demonstrators started to call the Vets imposters and he put on his uniform coat with two Purple Hearts (he has four) and the Silver Star. That ended those accusations, and he has been with them since. Nice way to silence those Bush suck-ups. MIKE'S PEOPLE Michael Moore has sent a producer, cameraman, and webmaster to camp and they are very nice folks. Monica, the producer, wants to document what 's happening with Malik and his people, and we agree to take them in. Jason is a sharp young cameraman who started out as a personal assistant to Michael. Eric is the webmaster who regularly updates their site. We load medical supplies, water (always accepted) and food into the Plenty bus. Thanks you Gary for this great bus. I've replaced a fuel line and a rear tire and it's running strong. A few of the guys from the Food not Bombs group from Hartford are here and want to tag along with their bus. Ok guys, go get loaded up. Jim, one of the Vets, and his wife Jaime have been wanting to go into New Orleans all week and he asks to go. I can't fit them into our bus but tell him he can go if he drives his truck, so he goes and loads his truck with supplies. This is how fast things happen, and it happens because everyone is raring to make these conditions change.By Golly, we got a convoy! Thirteen of us in the Plenty bus head out for the causeway, a 23 mile long bridge from the Covington side to the New Orleans side, followed by the other two trucks. When Gary first showed me the route last Tuesday, there was a Checkpoint Charlie at the bridge. They needed to see "paperwork" in order for us to get in, and we showed them official letters from Peter Schweitzer, Plenty's Executive Director, outlining our relief efforts. We had to also show driver licenses (to match the letter) to convince them we were legit. This to get into a city in Louisiana. This took five minutes or more at each checkoint. Today there is just an eyeballing from the guard who doesn't get up from his seat as he puts up his hand to stop us. "Stay to the right", he tells us. Fat chance with this bunch, I'm thinking. Jason starts filming and asks us how we feel about going into New Orleans on the fourth anniversary of 9/11. We all agree that we can honor and remember those dead by helping these folks who need a helping hand right now. I don't know how to compare the two, but while people here need help, 3/4 of the National Guard who could help from LA are in Iraq. GOING IN The causeway bridge is virtually empty, no cars in the rearview, and only a couple up ahead. Helicopters can be seen as we get close to the city, flying supplies (I guess) and working on the levees. Helicopters are everywhere, and I didn't know they had so many of them. Entering New Orleans is like entering a war zone. Signs are down, huge signs like the ones you see along the interstate. Some have hammered cars into crushed cans, some have landed on buildings putting in a skylight where there was roof before. Trees uprooted everywhere lie in the street and on houses and vehicles. Most of the streets are clear, but that's about it. We have to take the long way around in order to get to the southeast side of town. The West Bank Pkwy is always full of Army vehicles, but it's a little slower today. Sunday traffic I guess. We get off at De Gaulle Blvd. exit and wind up toward Malik's place near Levee St. When we arrive at his house, his wife Sharon meets us and tells us that he is at the mosque. We unload supplies and meet with Pacifica radio host Eva and her crew who are here. They are nice and like that we are delivering supplies to this neighborhood. Later Eva says she will link plenty.org from her radio site. Nice. THE BODIES Malik arrives and says hello. He begins helping to unload supplies, and when I get a chance alone I tell him about the crew with us, Michael Moore's people. His eyes get big, and he starts talking to Jason, the cameraman. He then also gets Eric and our Plenty cameraperson, Lenore Norrgard, and they get in his van and disappear for about 15 minutes. When they return, Lenore and Jason are visibly shaken. Malik has shown them a body, one of 13 that are still laying in the streets of Algiers. 12 black men and one black woman still lie on the street, decaying, and no one has come. Malik is incensed that even after calling for their removal the bodies remain. "How can they be concerned about disease, yet leave these bodies out here?" he asks. He is mad, and so are we. He feels a message is being sent to this community and I agree. I suggest calling 911 and tell them someone is hurt, and when the ambulance arrives, film them finding the body. They have to remove it then by law. He mulls that over while we head to the clinic. THE CLINIC A few days ago, Thursday night, some good people from Mayday DC showed up in camp. An angel of a woman and midwife, Bjork, has decided to take on the task of getting medical help into town and keeping it there. She has a couple EMT's and a nurse. These are very brave and very good people, as the stories of problems in town seem to center around nighttime, after dark and after curfew. We've heard some rough accounts of beatings and arrests at night, and everyone is leery about staying. Dennis Kyne and Gordon Soderberg, leaders of the Vets for Peace have agreed to send the Mayday DC crew in on Friday, and they made it. We pull up to the First Aid clinic and it's a sight. Tarps cover the roof where it leaks, and a couple young medics are gathering vitamins for distribution. I find Bjork inside and we have a tear-filled hug. We are as glad to see her as she is to see us. We keep our promise, and supplies are off-loaded. Bedding, pillows and other supplies are handed over. Medicines we have collected are immediately placed into zip-loc baggies to hand out. Eric plays jump rope with a 4 year old girl, and Joel and Mark sit down for a talk with some of the neighbors. For a minute or two, a day in hell becomes a day in Mr. Rogers neighborhood. THE CITY We have dropped all of the medical supplies now, and have a new list of stuff they need. Many residents are diabetic, and they need insulin auto-injectors and testing kits. More bleach, sandwich bags, vitamins, antibiotic cream, etc. With a small load of water and food still on the truck, we talk about heading back into the city. We are within view of the Mississippi River bridge and notice that someone has stopped on the bridge overpass and is filming us. I grab Jason and point him in their direction as he has the best zoom lens, but he can't make out who it is. Looks like we are being watched regardless. One of the medics with Mayday DC tells us that we won't be able to get into the city, that they are limiting trips to military and the larger media. I ask how folks feel, and tell them we can split up if some don't want to go into town. I am wasting my breath. I hear again that we can't get in now, and I kinda laugh and look at Michael Moore's crew. They smile and look back at me. The challenge has been made, so I climb back on the bus and start the engine, the signal to get loaded up for the next part of the journey. The crew obliges and they fill the bus while smiling and talking about the nice clinic we have here. It feels good. THE CITY BRIDGE We load up the bus and count heads. Billy Kelly, the Vet for Peace in our group, has been doing that chore. I guess they make it a habit, leave no hippy behind. The 13 of us and the two other vehicles in our convoy leave the clinic behind amidst shouts and waves. "Good luck", "Thank you", and "Bless you all" are heard. Now it's time to wind through the streets again, and the routine is pull up to a street and get a good view of it before making any effort at a turn. Many of the streets have been covered with downed trees and power lines, also other debris, so you want to make sure you can get through. Today it is a lot cleaner, so we don't have as much trouble finding the West Bank Pkwy again. This is also my fourth trip in, so even for a man I'm getting the directions down pretty good. We see the checkpoint immediately, and they are turning around a pickup truck that looks like it has a generator and some other tools in the back. There are some major contractors already here, with signs on every truck, but apparently they are not letting in the independents. I slow to let the other vehicles close up ranks before stopping at the guard station. Two humvees sit angled towards each other with several guardsmen stationed in front and behind the opening. I see a hand go up with the palm towards me, and I make eye contact with the soldier in our path. He isn't returning my smile, and as soon as he makes it up to the bus window he asks for some "authorization". I keep the letter from Plenty in an envelope right next to the window, and as he reads it, I am getting out my drivers license. He looks up and checks it, and then looks into the bus and asks what we are carrying. He seems satisfied with the response, and tells us to get out by 1800. Yes sir. As we pull through I notice that he is waving on the two vehicles in our wake, and the Food not Bombs driver is slapping the steering wheel as he drives through. We cheer a little as soon as we are out of earshot. GHOSTTOWN The first thing I notice in New Orleans that strikes me as different is that they have cleaned up the street scene outside the Convention Center. Where it was once a picture of a garbage dump on a city street, it's now at least clear of debris. Closer inspection of the windows shows that the stuff not picked up and put in a makeshift dump two blocks away is strewn about inside. The rumors have it that there are still dead bodies in there, and it looks like it could take awhile to clear out. We ride down Tchapachoulis Blvd., a large looping thoroughfare that winds southwest from the Convention Center. We know the location of some "holdouts", and they were asking for more water and some regular food instead of MRE's. It seems there are enough MRE's here to cover the entire state. The streets are very quiet now, not counting army trucks and some tour busses that they say are ferrying troops. We make our way to the Lower Garden district, hoping to meet up with Stanley and Debra. They have three children and nine grandchildren in the house with them. Stanley has a home repair business and has wondered before why he couldn’t get some work rebuilding the homes around him. After all, they didn't flood, and the wind damage includes fixing roofing and siding mostly. As we round the bend on Tchapachoulis, right near 9th street, we surprise a patrol that has taken their position on a stairwell. It looks like five guys from the 1st Cav, and the guy at the door is banging on it and shouting "Open up, U.S. Army. Open up". Two of the guys near the bottom of the stairs motion us to move by, and we don't see the rest, but it is obvious that they have found something or someone. We move down towards Toledano St., and continue our search for friends. We loop around onto Toledano, and when we get to the corner of Anunciation I can feel the difference. When we came here twice before, the kids would meet the bus in the street. A small 6' high plastic basketball hoop in the street was always busy, and we could hear some activity. Today we are met with silence and an empty street. We pull up to their house, and I notice a broken fence next to his house, then one across the street. These were fairly new fences, with newer boards that hadn't weathered in the sun yet. Yards between homes are now exposed, and looking down the street I see the patrol we passed earlier. I think I know what happened here. After a quick look around the couple blocks we hear barking dogs, and find some strays in a back porch area. They are scared and hungry, and the front door of the place has been spray-painted SPCA 9/11. F/W. We spend a few minutes and see another house sprayed the same way, and there is another dog. The code is deciphered that the SPCA should leave food and water here. The date is when they were left here alone. The neighborhood has literally gone to the dogs. Jim and Jaime, with VFP, will not leave these animals here, and use a little food and coaxing to take them. I feel better about that, knowing that this must be how hundreds of streets now look inside the city. COACH TONY We load back up and start to head out. Someone shouts from inside the bus that he sees a couple of people, and we turn up Camp St. A slender black man waves hard and starts to jog towards the bus. He says his name is Anthony but "they call me Coach Tony". He has worked for years at the local community center, and now he and his friend are the only two left. We haven't met him until today, but he has heard of us, and wants water if we have some. The back door of the bus swings open, and we unload four cases of water and some food. He thanks us for this "miracle" and begins to tell us his version of the recent events, some stuff we've been hearing recently, that this is God's way of cleansing the sins of the city, that it needs to be reborn. I walk away while he tells it to the camera, thinking God should have started in Washington DC, and then quickly withdrawing that thought to. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. Monica has made contact with a friend who has relatives in the French Quarter, and we decide to drop the last of our supplies there. It strikes me as strange that we will supply the Quarter, but apparently people there want to stay too, and they can't get water and food now that all the stores are closed. The bus heads back to the Quarter. LOCAL ACTIVISM With some good directions, we are now on Bourbon St. and St. Peter. The names on the intersection remind me of the dichotomy all around us. Like being at the corner of Desire and Piety Sts. the other day. We have run into Mike and Angela Howell, local activists who spend time between running errands around this area and trying to organize some hometown resistance against paying large multinational corp's (read Halliburton) to come in and fix this place for them. I haven't met one person locally yet that wants that. Monica, the producer, has a friend who's mother is in the Quarter. She lives on the same street as Mike Howell, and we stop to supply her. Her husband works at a bar on Bourbon St., so we head out with our new friend Nancy to find it. We stop at Johnny Whites, a renowned local watering hole, that NEVER closes, and the crowd is large. We revel along with some zydeco musician who is playing four instruments in tune and singing some Cajun music. One of the cops tell us of a nursing home found with all residents deceased inside. He sheds tears, and says "That's not the only one". A couple folks have a beer and as we try to extract ourselves politely, I notice a few guys on the second floor across the street. They initially play it like they are from here, but why the matching knaki shirts? Then I notice the sidearm, and ask a local N.O. cop about them. He is glad to let me know it's Blackwater. Just monitoring the situation I guess, but on the second floor they are paying close attention to the street scene below. Birds eye view. I let Joel know and we decide to exit early, stage left. Goodbye New Orleans, I'll make it back soon I hope. STAY ON THE BUS We have a talkative, good natured trip back into Covington. Billy Kelly jumps up on the hood when I stop for fuel and does the windows. A Vietnam hero is washing our glass. He is around 60 and when he moves you can tell he has been wounded, but he does the chore with a smile. We are all tired and ready for some rest as we pull into camp. Gordon, the VFP point man, jumps on the bus with enthusiasm and asks us "Did you guys have fun today?". We laugh and shout "oh yeah", and he tells us "Great!. Well, stay on the bus, turn this thing around, and go help unload a semi full of goods at the mini storage". Grooooaaaaannnnn. We look around and camp is empty, everybody is either already there or on the way. We fire the bus back up and head towards the storage place where Trent Rezners group is now unloading 20 tons of food and supplies. We plug in and daisy chain pallet loads of stuff into dry storage, next to spaces where locals have parked sports cars and luxury boats for storage. The laughter and joking makes the work easy, and soon we are done. A semi truck unloaded in less than two hours. Wow. Now back to camp for the ride home. Joel, Mark and David will stay. Paul Gaskin stays on and so does Katharine West, who just happened to be at the Ecovillage when we got this trip together. She is from Jackson, MS. September 14, 2005, The Quilt I wanted to expand on the trip into Algiers when possible, and I found myself reliving the "passing on" of a quilt done by the 2nd grade class at a middle school in Nashville. We were headed into Algiers, our first sojourn to that area, and a "risky" proposition considering we were showing up at 1800 hours, (6 pm), in a neighborhood where that is exactly when curfew starts. Now, I haven't really had curfew since high school, and this was about to get different. When we got off the West Bank Pkwy, it was a whole 'nother story. Two exits before the De Gaulle Blvd exit, the New Orleans police blocked the exit ramps. I mean blocked, like two cars facing you at an angle, with lights flashing. No entry point noted, none taken. I was worried De Gaulle would be closed, but we saw some military trucks exiting there, so we merged into the far right lane and went along with the crowd. Once off the West Bank, it was clear the town was empty. Nothing. No light on the corner, no traffic (other than these military trucks), and no people. Eerie, to say the least. The last time we had been into town, we had at least seen some PEOPLE for God's sake. Following De Gaulle, we seemed to be following the procession of camo-and-brown colored vehicles, and while driving I asked Gary to check the map. As it turns out, we were going in the wrong direction, but when I looked up, we were now part of a 30 -to 40- vehicle convoy of military vehicles. I had changed lanes once or twice, thinking we would turn around, and now we were between a flatbed hauling some heavy-duty earthmover, and behind us was a fuel truck. The fuel truck driver was less than pleased to now be following a yellow school bus with the cardboard (yet neatly lettered) sign in the back window that read Plenty.org. I could imagine his consternation, as this bold military exercise now had the atmosphere of a weekday morning ride down Sesame Street. We held formation for a while to find the right way to go. We wound up taking a hard left, and deadheaded up toward the levee, close to where we needed to be. While heading North, I saw the same convoy up ahead, they had taken the larger road and now we were trailing them again. They began to turn into a large fenced area, and I noticed it was a Navel Shipyard, complete with the razor wire on top of the fencing. This place was monstrous, and now it was full. Tents everywhere, and camo-netting covering some large military vehicles. Along with the construction equipment were the dogs of war, the tanks. I didn't know if they were already there or not, but it looked like some had just arrived. As we slid past, we watched the ones who were watching us. Rolling down more deserted streets, I didn't see anyone. Where were the people? We forged ahead and stopped at the corner of Newton and Atlantic. "LOOK, someone is waving!!", was the cry, and I turned in that direction. On a lonely stoop just four houses from the corner, we saw a man and what looked to be his family sitting on the small porch out front. They were waving!!, so we waved back, and I turned the bus in that direction. We rode right in front of the house, and now they had come off of the porch, into the street, smiling and looking into our eyes. We asked "Do you need water?", and they said that they had some. "Food?", and they said they would take some. We stopped, thinking we'd be here long enough to drop several boxes, when on the porch appeared a young boy, maybe 8 yrs old, holding a small child in his arms. His smile and hers together lit up the block, and Lenore Norrgard, our photojournalist/crewmember, looks at me and says "Quilt?". We had talked of a moment like this, but hadn't seen the young ones yet, and I immediately said "yeah, a quilt". Now not having given away one of these babies yet, I was trying to convince the mother, LeAnndrea, that we had something special for the baby. I'm sure she was thinking diapers by her expression, but I said "let me get something out of the bus", and she looked interested. She seemed to be in her early 20's, and the child was just 11 months old. I took the bag of quilts and removed the first one, just trusting in the logic of numbers without looking first. I started to take it out of it's own small bag, when it fell open and I saw the most beautiful rainbow of colors on a snowy white background appear. My heart flew, knowing as I looked around now, that all eyes were on the quilt. No one spoke, so I couldn't help myself and said "I haven't even looked at one of these yet, Woooow", and everyone nodded in agreement. The story from each child in the 2nd grade class, hand lettered on a 8 1/2 by 11 sheet of notebook paper, with a kind wish on one side, and a beautiful picture that each had drawn on the other. Every one of these was held together by a ring, and the ring was attached to the quilt. A group photo of the class and teacher was also included. Whoooaaaaa. This is now a happening in the middle of the street. We exchange names and address, and the woman is holding the quilt up against the little child, still in her brother’s arms, and they are continuing to thank us. Pictures are taken, and I hear someone ask "what else you got on that bus?", and we all laugh. There is no topping this. The mother wants to thank those responsible so I tell her to write to the Plenty address in Summertown for me, and I will deliver it. As we say our goodbyes, a SUV suddenly pulls up, and Malik gets out of the passenger side. "Come on, right now! It's curfew!", he says abruptly. He's a little agitated as he points up the block and we see the Army 1st cavalry, a 7-man patrol headed toward this little gathering. We agree it's time to go. More hugs, names are learned, and we are blessed on our way up the road. It's only three blocks up to Malik's house, and he is stopped briefly by the patrol. He gets through with just a few words, and is safely up the road. Our passing wouldn't be so quick... Read Ralph's latest post on Michael Moore's web site Friday, September 30th, 2005 The Front Porch, Elmo St. House